Carpenter, Chef, Chauffeur and a Cop
The Carpenter and the Chef
That night, the sight of the blood-red orange sunset foretold good weather would follow, it was an old wive's tale of course, because sometime overnight 'hurricane wrong way' decided to shake things up a bit.
The rain began with a plip, plop, plip, plop, the kind of sound which lends itself as the perfect white noise conducive to sleep. Sleep for me was both enemy and friend, it was hard to come by but very easy to lose. On this night, however, the rain drummed a steady staccato which made my eyelids heavy and eventually carried me off to dreamland. It was a good start to a good night or so I thought.
Meanwhile, somewhere in the Caribbean Sea, Leslie, the one they so appropriately nicknamed 'hurricane wrong way' had changed direction yet again.
In my dream, I was somehow trapped in that advertisement on television except it was summer. I was on the beach below the house and waves were racing towards the shore. The trees had uprooted themselves and were running either after me or with me, I wasn't sure which because the waves were rolling in fast and it was not the time to stop and get philosophical. Whatever happened next would not be good.
Outdoors, Leslie was angry like storms usually are, in the wee hours of the morning, her gale-force winds battered the breadfruit tree next to the house. The noise pulled me from my sleep… then I heard the glass shattered no doubt from the bough I asked the landlord to remove after the last storm passed through and damn near gave me a heart attack. I felt the sudden change of air pressure in the house. The remnants of the cool air had been sucked out of the house and replaced by a heavy humid air. Obviously, the window covering had not been properly secured. Yet, another thing my landlord failed to do properly.
As a matter of pure reflex, my hand reached out searching blindly for the nightstand until it connects to the hard surface and my fingers walked lightly towards the aluminum device detaching it from its charger checking the time, it was a little after two in the morning. The power was out and little could be done to save the ground level, so I elected to ride the storm out from right where I was curled up in bed. I wasn't exactly keen on wading barefoot in the dark on a floor sprayed with glass and covered in water.
...
Later that morning, there was a noise in the distance, it took me a while to determine I was no longer dreaming. Someone was actually pounding on the door.
It was later than I had imagined, using my arm I shield my eyes from the bright light of the new day streaming through the open curtains.
The sun had risen in the wake of Leslie's rampage exposing all the destruction she left behind, but there was this stillness as I peered out the window. It was as if nature was taking a moment to recover from a wild night binge, but for the noise, at the front door, it was just still. The palm trees nearby didn't sway in the usual sea breeze they looked beaten and worn down.
Having disentangled myself from my bedsheets, I went to see just who the hell was making such a ruckus at the front door. It turned out to be the neighbour, the one from across the street, apparently, he's a carpenter, one who was currently fighting with what was left of the front door.
"Mornin', neighbour. I wasn't sure you were here… you know considering I have been hammering away at this for some time now," he spoke not in an island dialect but a slow southern drawl, which immediately made him an interesting subject to study. My camera would love to tell his story. It would be a nice contrast to the natives, while we were both from North America, with my dark skin I could easily blend with the natives whereas he stood out. It was his speech, his silky brown short curls and, his normal fair skin was now visibly tanned from sun worship. He had eyes of sapphire, a roman nose, a salt and pepper beard neatly trimmed short accentuating the sexiest pink lips and his perfect bone structure. Yes, he had a story... one yet to be told.
The scene reminded me of "Moonlight and Valentino", except, instead of a painter, I was standing here ogling one hot ass carpenter. A very distracting one too. I was, so busy sizing him up I forgot he greeted me to which I was yet to reply. Oh, snap! Gurl roll your tongue back in your mouth and speak as your mama taught you to do.
"Morning," I replied not quite sure what else to say, "you do know this isn't my place and you may never be reimbursed for your labour, right?"
My landlord, Jerry wasn't the most reliable person, but I was stuck for a place to stay until such time the influx of diasporas who were on the island for the summer returned home.
"Don't worry 'bout it ma'am, I'll settle up with Jerry eventually," he said, "using his arm to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead.
Lawd have mercy, if I knew breaking something would have brought him across the street sooner, I would have broken something every day just to watch the sweat drip off of him.
"I don't know you very well, but it won't be safe to stay here like this. I'll patch it up for now but you're more than welcome to the extra room at my place, no strings attached of course. You could consider it an upgrade since Jerry's also my landlord, too."
He was right with the broken windows and now the barely there door, it wasn't the safest place to stay, but was the alternative rooming with a stranger with whom the longest conversation was the one we just had? Apart from my camera equipment which was always with me, there was nothing in the place to steal. However, the thought of sleeping here without a storm as a deterrent to keep people indoors might be a different thing altogether, so I weighed my options.
"No strings attached, but I'll take your picture for insurance purposes… I mean, if I should you know... disappear… or just happen to wash up on shore, folks will know you're the last person with whom I had contact."
He laughed and his laugh lines were prominent, his amusement was disarming. Once he was thoroughly satisfied with my attempt at self-preservation, he wiped his hand on his torn jeans and extend it to me. "I'm Rick… Rick Grimes. Pleased to meet yah, Ma'am". His handshake was firm and strong. His hand was calloused to the touch no doubt from hard labour.
"Michonne Jones. Please to meet you, Mr. Grimes."
"It's just Rick, Mr. Grimes' my daddy."
"In that case, Rick, just Rick, I'm Michonne… not Ma'am because I'm younger than you are, old man." I retort with a small smile.
"Ouch! Fair enough, can I entice you to a warm cup of java? I've been here long enough to know that it'll be a while before the power's back on for you to be able to use the appliances."
Raising my eyebrow I asked him, "How's it that you have coffee then?"
"I live pretty much as the Islanders do, I don't rely solely on appliances, as a matter of fact, I prefer the old ways. I have a coal pot… if you're nice... I might even make you breakfast too," he teased packing up his tool kit and forgetting all about the door.
The thought of food made my stomach growl. It was embarrassing. "I reckon I have no choice now that you have me at a disadvantage."
...
Thirty minutes later, I sat outdoors in Rick's backyard with my eyes closed inhaling the strong rich aroma of the coffee as it percolated on the coal pot; the smell awakened my taste buds in anticipation of tasting the hot sweet flavourful liquid while waiting for the breakfast spread my host was preparing for us.
Mr. Grimes fibbed just a little; he had not only a coal pot but also barbeque pit on which he was currently, busy, preparing us a rustic breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, fried tomatoes, and mushrooms all cooking in a cast iron frying pan. The tantalizing aromas caused my stomach to growl and my mouth to water in anticipation of the delicious meal.
In the meantime, my eyes studied the carpenter turned chef. The entire scene conjured images of what camping might be like if I was courageous enough to sleep under the stars.
It wasn't long before we sat at the polished concrete picnic table, my hands wrapped around a warm mug of black coffee which was loaded with sugar.
The aromas of bacon, fried eggs and sausages assaulted my nose. The tantalizing fragrance in the open air mixed with the earthy scent after the rain it was an incredible blend. The food tasted just as good as it smells a mixture of sweet, salty, crispy, soft and chewy goodness.
"So, you're not only a carpenter, but a chef too?" I inquired about his resume in between devouring a strip of the crispy bacon, "It's really good, thank you!"
"Just being hospitable to a fellow compatriot," he replied rather humble.
My host was a man of very few words. He intrigued me… there was a story there, I could feel it, but it was a story for another day.
At the moment, I chose to sit back and enjoy my breakfast, the company and the breathtaking view of the island. Our vantage point on the hillside offered a spectacular view of the narrow road snaking its way around the mountainside. Around us, there were patches which Leslie missed completely juxtaposed with the carnage, but overall life continued and the Caribbean Sea below was calm once again; this was the story I would tell today.